The Untouchable
by Mercurial Phoenix
Summary: I've been treated so wrong, I've been treated so long as if I'm becoming untouchable. I'm a slow-dying flower, a frost-killing hour, the sweet turning sour--and untouchable... Zuko-centric. Lyrics used from "My Skin" by Natalie Merchant. 310 spoilers.
1. thrives in the dark

_(take a look at my body, look at my hands—there's so much here that i don't understand)_

It has been a very long time since he has been able to sleep without fear.

The caution, the wariness, he is used to. That feeling of need to watch his back or someone might plunge a knife (or a boomerang or a spear of ice) into it—yes, he's definitely used to that. After all, he's spent the last month sleeping under the same roof as Azula. The first three nights at home, he'd hardly caught four hours a night.

He is accustomed to having to relax each part of his body separately, going over Uncle's breathing exercises, counting to unreasonably high numbers before his muscles are loose enough to allow him a semblance of rest. He starts from the feet and makes his way slowly, slowly upward, consciously coaxing the stiff muscles into pliancy.

But the fearlessness—that takes some getting used to.

Usually his nights are occupied by staring at the canopy of his bed in utter silence, slowly releasing his tensions one by one. His sleep is filled with uncomfortable visions of Uncle in his cell (_you brought this on yourself)_ and Azula gazing into the beach bonfire with that strange, faraway expression (_my own mother thought I was a monster)_ and Mai turning her face away from him (_I was the perfect prince, but I wasn't me)_ and his father, his fallen idol, his false god, his failed dream, his foolish hope (_for so long, all I wanted__ was for you to love me, to accept me)_.

His dreams are full of questions and fire.

He is lying now on a thin pallet on the stone floor of a bizarrely upside-down temple, somewhat uncomfortable but mostly asleep anyway. On either side of him are allies to the Avatar—to him. The smallest boy, The Duke, is snoring loudly to his left; the earthbending boy, Haru, is breathing in a quiet, easy rhythm to his right. Across the fire, the paraplegic Teo is sprawled on a cot beside his chair. That blind earthbending girl, Toph, the one he'd accidentally burned and who had still vouched for him, is curled up on the bare stone floor. Ranged around her in almost a circle are the Water Tribe boy, Sokka, the angry waterbender girl, Katara, and the Avatar himself. Aang.

Frankly, Zuko thinks in his bordering-on-unconscious state, he is surprised they, especially the angry waterbender, allowed him to sleep amongst them. A tigerwolf among koala-sheep, he muses. Only the angry girl is more like a man-eating hogmonkey.

He is very surprised that they allowed him into their circle while they are at their most vulnerable. He is also surprised that he allowed himself to be surrounded by very recently former enemies while _he _is at his most vulnerable.

And he is not afraid.

He is drifting on that razor edge between dreams and waking. There are warriors all around his lax form, and he is lazily contemplating (as he had suggested to Aang once) his place in the universe. _Their_ universe.

_Two different worlds,_ he thinks hazily. Fire Nation and everybody else. Conquerors and victims. He is as foreign to them as they are to him. And here they are, lying beside each other peacefully.

He feels no fear. In fact, he feels extremely content—something he has not been since his uncle opened his tea shop in Ba Sing Se. Certainly not since he'd betrayed his uncle and the Avatar and the angry waterbender girl in the crystal cave.

He blinks slowly, breathes deeply, still sleepily baffled by his easy acceptance of his newest betrayal (_I'm going to join the Avatar, and I'm going to help him defeat you)_ and his new allies' easy acceptance, for the most part, of his unexpected assistance.

_I wonder,_ he thinks just as he closes his eyes and slides slowly off that precipice into the blank world of dreams, _if Uncle would be proud of me now. I wonder—_as the mists of sleep embrace him lovingly and gently whisper to him—_if he would forgive me now._


	2. do you remember the way

_(contempt loves the silence, it thrives in the dark with fine-winding tendrils that strangle the heart)_

In Zuko's dream, he is two years old, and his Uncle Iroh is holding him over his head and laughing heartily up into his face. His ten-year-old cousin Lu Ten is crouched over a crude sandcastle and grinning over at his father and baby cousin.

In this dream, Uncle Iroh gently swoops Zuko through the air and makes cooing noises, completely unaware that as a fearsome war general he should be more composed and less…_indulgent._ But he has never been one for conventions, and prefers flying his infant nephew to maintaining perfect dignity at all times.

In the dream, baby Zuko looks down at that smiling, benevolent face and feels the feelings that he associates with _warmprotected safehappy goodfeeling _and with the recognition that will someday become the word pronounced _father._

--

In Zuko's dream, the long-ago, fuzzy memory of the beach morphs, twists, becomes a long table crowded with old men, becomes a face twisted with fury, becomes his father's blazing eyes filled with contempt, becomes the searing pain (only a phantom, only a memory, only a dream) of the fire devouring his flesh, his eye, his hope.

In this dream, Zuko's Uncle Iroh is the only one who leaps to Zuko's side after the Fire Lord turns his back, walks away without a second glance from _your son, your son, I'm your son_. Uncle Iroh tears the sleeve of his own uniform and dabs at the blood on his nephews face and roars for a medic, fear in his eyes and in his voice and in his trembling hands, and _I'm sorry so sorry_ in his touch.

In the dream, Uncle Iroh stays with him through his recuperation, his banishment, his unyielding search for the Avatar, and Zuko never says _Thank you_ at all, even once, and Uncle Iroh never mentions it.

--

In Zuko's dream, he sees temples and towns and blockades and bison soaring through the air. He sees pride and poverty, Uncle Iroh's easy smile and his own unrelenting scowl, wishes and choices, lies and truth, _hardcoldtruth._

In this dream, Uncle Iroh is strolling from vendor to vendor on a busy market street looking for a useless object and buying more useless objects in the meantime. Uncle Iroh is offering Zuko tea and advice, neither of which is received well, willingly, or at all. Uncle Iroh is being forced to beg for money, to dance, to serve. Uncle Iroh is lying on a pallet bound tightly with bandages, _please get better please don't leave me alone._

In the dream, Uncle Iroh is sitting in a prison cell, his back turned to Zuko just as the Fire Lord's had been just years ago. His voice just as silent as Ozai's had been; that silence full of the same disdain, disappointment, disgust. Dismissal.

--

In Zuko's dream—a dream that is not made up of memories, of truth, a dream that is entirely made up of wishes, of hope—he is sixteen years old, and his Uncle Iroh is holding him at arm's length and laughing heartily into his face.

In this dream, Uncle Iroh gently pulls Zuko into a warm, tight hug, his arms comforting and reassuring, completely aware that he is being indulgent and still, after all these years, uncaring of how it looks. He has never been one for conventions, and prefers embracing his grown nephew to maintaining perfect dignity at all times.

In the dream, Zuko looks into that smiling, benevolent face and feels the feelings associated with _thank you _and _I love you_ and _you are the reason I am who I am_ and with the recognition that he pronounces _father, my father._

And Uncle Iroh smiles into Zuko's eyes and whispers _I am proud of you, my son._


	3. is it dark enough, can you see me

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Kichigai Hi, because of your truly, truly wonderful comments and absolute positivity. I'm glad you like my Avatar fanfiction, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support.

Iroh thinks he is probably more of a failure as a father than his brother is, because his brother does not love his son, and Iroh does love Zuko, _truly does, so much so much_, and he still lost him.

Zuko has been struggling all his life under the intimidating shadow of his father, of his sister, of the legacy of the Fire Nation. Iroh has watched him go from happy young child to confused young boy with his mother's disappearance, from confused young boy to determined young man with his father's dismissal. He knows that Zuko has always been unhappy with his sister's constant success, because it is not his own. He knows, too, that Zuko has always been unhappy with his uncle's constant support, because it is not his father's.

It has hurt Iroh to watch Zuko's never-ending battle with his pride and his destiny, but it hurt Iroh so much more to watch Zuko begin to accept his fate and then to be torn again by indecision—and it has wrenched his heart desperately, the choice that Zuko made.

When he and the Avatar stumbled into the crystal cave and saw Zuko and the Water Tribe girl standing together, Iroh nearly stopped in his tracks. He remembers, even now, with perfect clarity, how they looked in the instant before they had turned to see Iroh and Aang: barely a foot apart, the girl's hand outstretched toward Zuko's scar. He remembers the look on Zuko's face: hope, so much hope, and wonder. And the girl—such compassion, such sadness. And then they had turned away from each other, and Zuko had betrayed her, betrayed them all.

Iroh has been disappointed with his boy before, many times, but not until Zuko ranged himself beside his sister has Iroh ever been ashamed of him.

Iroh's first son, the son of his blood, fell in the war, and since his death, Iroh has been tormented by the fact that he was unable to help him, to save him, to keep him.

Iroh's second son, the son of his heart, has also fallen, and though he lives, Iroh is still tormented by the fact that he was unable to help him, to save him.

To keep him.


	4. look at my hands

_(look at my hands)_

Since his escape from prison, Iroh has been thinking a lot about his wife.

--

Mei Lin was a beautiful woman, it was true. Her exceptionally delicate features and incredibly green eyes had been what attracted Iroh's attention at first.

Her absolute disregard for him caught his attention next.

Iroh was once considered something of a ladies' man in his youth; he has always had a keen appreciation for women. He's never been quite foolish enough to use terms like 'the fairer sex'—or gentler, or weaker. He knew before he met Mei Lin that women were a mysteriously powerful race, unfathomable to men but still wondrous and fascinating creatures.

After he met Mei Lin, he wracked his brain for every single nugget of knowledge he possessed on how women worked and what they wanted and the translation of their ambiguities into a codex that men could understand.

Mei Lin seemed thoroughly disenchanted with the fact that Iroh was Crown Prince of the Fire Nation. Actually, she seemed thoroughly disenchanted with Iroh altogether, and he hadn't a clue what he'd done to earn her cool stares and silent dismissals.

He actually grew crazier about her the longer she ignored him. He made ten kinds of fool out of himself trying to gain her approval—or even simply her _attention._ Once or twice he caught the quickest quirk of her lips into a smile before she whipped her fan over her face.

Those tiny glimpses of amusement—of acknowledgment—were what drove his desperate quest for more, just the smallest bit more, and then more, and then more.

--

By the time he was completely and almost miserably in love with her, he realized that she'd planned it that way all along.

When he'd marched up to her, eyes snapping, lips pursed, arms folded across his chest, and simply stared at her in mute anger, she'd had the gall to flutter her lashes and ask if there was something he wanted.

"You know very well what it is I want," he said, extremely politely but with an edge of irritation.

"Oh, but Your Highness," Mei Lin demurred, her eyes laughing at his thinly-veiled fury. "Surely I wouldn't presume to know your innermost wishes. You are, after all, a prince."

"And surely I wouldn't presume to know yours. You are, after all, a woman."

She waved her fan idly. "Such sage words, Your Highness."

Iroh's jaw tightened. "Madam," he said crisply, "you are being coy."

She fluttered her lashes again.

"And what's more, you do it intentionally, simply for the enjoyment of watching me ridicule myself for your regard."

Her thin, dark eyebrows rose like the sun over a hill. "My, that _is_ presumptuous," she hummed.

Iroh inhaled slowly to calm his temper. He'd already earned the title The Dragon of theWest, but that didn't mean he had to act like one. Especially in the presence of, and towards, a lady. "Madam," he said again, and then after a pause, "Mei Lin."

Her lips curved. "Your Highness. Iroh." She lowered her fan and tilted her head up at him.

He stared at her, thrown for a loop at the sound of his name on her lips. "You—" He cut himself off, and then to his utter surprise, began to laugh. "You devious—_female."_

"Why, thank you." She smiled at him—really, truly smiled at him for the very first time in the entire two years he'd been vying for her attention. "You arrogant—_male."_

"Mei Lin," Iroh said, grinning and kneeling at her feet. "You've tamed a dragon and humbled a prince. And you've captivated a man."

"I am a woman of many talents," she said airily, glancing at him from under her dark lashes.

He laid a hand over hers. "And keen eyesight," he said softly. "Surely you can see how I feel about you, Mei Lin."

She said nothing, only watched him.

He sighed in exasperation. "And you're not going to settle for pretty words and noble gestures, I see."

Her lips quirked, just the slightest movement that hinted at amusement. He felt warmth in his heart that had nothing to do with firebending.

"Mei Lin," he murmured. Then he shook his head and gave her a pointed look. "Woman," he declared decisively, "we belong together and you are fully aware of the fact."

"A bold statement, Your Highness," said Mei Lin diffidently. "What assurance can you offer as truth to such an assumption?

Iroh laughed, entwining his fingers with hers. "Assurance? My dear lady, I can only assure you that I must either marry you or murder you, for I cannot allow any woman to drive me as crazy as you manage to do, and live to tell the tale."

She laughed too, and leaned forward. "Well, what choice do I have?" she murmured, and her eyes went soft and bright with fondness.

He shook his head. "You knew exactly where this was heading the very first time you bid me a good afternoon in a tone that meant you hoped I fell off a bridge."

Mei Lin hummed. "I wonder," she said, her eyes dancing.

Iroh laughed again and leaned up to kiss her smiling lips.

--

When they married five months later, he felt as if he was truly the happiest man in the entire world, his beautiful green-eyed bride on his arm. It didn't matter to him that he was Crown Prince Iroh, the Dragon of the West, a respected military name. He was Iroh, husband of Mei Lin, and the world, even embroiled in war, was a wonderful, wonderful place.

--

Six months after they married, Mei Lin announced she was with child. Nine months later brought the birth of Iroh's son, his promotion to general, the first idle discussions about invading Ba Sing Se, and the faintest hint of unease stirring amidst the royal family.

Six years after Lu Ten was born, Mei Lin passed away of an illness which stole the breath from her lungs and the color from her cheeks. When Iroh kissed her goodbye for the last time, his eyes streaming with tears, his heart breaking in half, he caught the faintest quirk to her lips, the tiniest movement—she had not the strength for anything more—as if she was, on some inner level, still amused at him, making a complete and utter spectacle of himself for her sake.

And then she was gone.

--

When Lu Ten died in his father's arms outside the walls of Ba Sing Se, his body crushed by several tons of solid stone, his lips held the same small quirk his mother's had, and Iroh wept long after his son's body went cold.


End file.
